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look nearer twenty than thirty. The daughter's face Chayne could not see,
for it was bent persistently over a book. But he thought of a big doll in
a Christmas toy-shop. From her delicate bronze shoes to her large hat of
mauve tulle everything that she wore was unsuitable. The frock with its
elaborations of lace and ribbons might have passed on the deal boards of
Trouville. Here at Annemasse her superfineness condemned her.

Chayne would have thought no more of her, but as he passed her table on
his way out of the buffet his eyes happened to fall on the book which so
engrossed her. There was a diagram upon the page with which he was
familiar. She was reading an old volume of the "Alpine Journal." Chayne
was puzzled--there was so marked a contradiction between her outward
appearance and her intense absorption in such a subject as Alpine
adventure. He turned at the door and looked back. Sylvia Thesiger had
raised her head and was looking straight at him. Thus their eyes met, and
did more than meet.

Chayne, surprised as he had been by the book which she was reading, was
almost startled by the gentle and rather wistful beauty of the face which


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